Hobbies and other disasters
by CrazyC00kie
Summary: Mostly CRACK: 'You should get yourself a hobby  ...   fishing. Try fishing', Sgt Donovan called after him.
1. Chapter 1

They rushed together to the newest crime scene. Sherlock flying up the stairs with John running behind. He couldn't even enter the room properly before Sherlock started his deduction.

‚No... no... no', Sherlock mumbled franticaly ‚this isn't right. It wasn't an accident. Can't be...'

John took one good look at the victim - a young woman about twenty-six, according to Sherlock murdered in her own flat – and decided there wasn't much he could do to assist.

He leaned back against the nearest wall, next to Sgt. Donovan.

They kept watching Sherlock's deduction for a while. He was looking behind curtains, under the bed, on the ceiling, trying to cut the couch open...

‚I went fishing last weekend', he told her nonchalantly without taking his eyes off the crime scene and Sherlock.

‚Really?', she asked surprised ‚how did it go?'

‚Nice, he replied, still not looking at her, ‚really nice. It was quiet... in the beginning at least.'

He turned to face her before continuing.

‚They found a dead body a few hours after my arrival, said he fell of his boat, hit his head on the railing and drowned. The police thought it was an accident. I don't know why but something sounded fishy about the whole story.'

He paused for a moment while Sherlock and Lesterade shouted at one another.

‚I had a look around there myself, asked some questions... turns out he had a high insurance in case he died and a brother with a lot of debts. So... the brother invited him and some friends to a fishing trip. He waited 'till his brother was alone than sneaked up on him and hit him with the butt of a fishing knife hard on the head, threw him over board and sneaked back to the others. No one noticed he was missing at first. When they did, they couldn't tell who was where at the estimated time of death.'

John turned back to Sherlock and Anderson, who discussed currently whether Sherlock was allowed to set a piece of evidence on fire or not. They had already established that no, he was not allowed to set the whole body on fire.

‚The brother forgot to get rid of the knife.'John continued ‚I told the police. They found the murder weapon, still with a lot of blood on it and arrested him.'

Smiling faintly he looked back at Sally, her mouth was hanging open, trying to decide whether John was taking the piss. He didn't looked amused and too honest to make such a story up.

‚I don't think I enjoy fishing. I didn't catch anything, well... except for a murderer, that is. Might try something else tho, it was nice having an evening for myself.'

Sherlock, not been allowed to set anything on fire, stomped out of the door.

‚Well', John said, turning to leave ‚looks like I got to go. See you around.'

Flabbergasted Sgt Donovan stared the two man depart. ‚Try playing golf next time', she called after him, just before they walked out the front door.

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson sat on his bed, back against the wall and a laptop on his knees. He couldn't be certain whether it belonged to Sherlock or himself – not that it mattered.

Sorting his thoughts and going through the memories of the past few days, he started tipping his newest blog entry.

Certain that Sally would read it, along with the rest of the police station, he considered carefully what to write down and what to leave out.  
>They probably wouldn't arrest him, even if some incriminating facts slipped into the story.<p>

That's what he was telling after all. A story – his story.

Sherlock would be far better with writing it down, but he hasn't been there. This was John's story, not Sherlock's. It was only fair that he should write it down.

**The Mystery of the Sandy Eye **

Last weekend I went golfing. An acquaintance of mine advised me to get a hobby, so I thought I would give it a shot.

Well, I can tell you this much beforehand: it wasn't as bad I expected it to be.

It was rather pleasant, if not to say criminal good.

But lets not get ahead of myself, this is how it all started:

It was a rather quiet Saturday, not something anyone living in 221b Backer Street is particularly experienced in. Sherlock was terrible bored and started shooting at the wall again (I'm not gonna clean that up. Do it yourself Sherlock), our landlady Mrs Hudson was away for the week to visit some friends and I was left on my own.

A while back Sgt Donovan – someone I work with sometimes – advised me to get a hobby. I already tried fishing but it didn't work out as expected – than nothing ever does right?

I took her advice and went away to a golfing club, a friend of my sisters used to play there. It's a huge place. You can stay there over night and play golf on about sixty courses.

Of course I choose the wrong one.  
>I always choose the bloody wrong thing. Not that I would complain, it can be nice to run around and chase the bad guy over rooftops or seeing dead bodies and trying to find out the cause of death.<p>

But not all the time.

Especially not on the holidays.

On my day of. WITHOUT a certain consulting detective to drag me from one murder scene to the next without taking time to eat, sleep or breath.

I met Thomas at the check in – a nice bloke who came to have a relaxed weekend without his fiancee. We got along pretty well and decided to play against each other in the afternoon.

The day started really well, unfortunately everything went downhill from there on.

Thomas was way out of my league and nearly won. When I say nearly, it's not because I managed to win but... well we never got to finish the game. What a pity.

We were on hole twenty – or maybe somewhere else, I'm not entirely sure it looked all kind of the same to me – I remember there was one of those nasty sand traps, of course my ball landed directly in it.

Come to think of it, I recon Sherlock had something to do with it. Not that he was there with me but he always seems to manage to be involved when the trouble starts.

And this was the exact moment my weekend went from nice and relaxed to weird and insane.

Since I wasn't such a great player I couldn't manage to hit the ball – I dug quite a deep hole in the sand.

After the maybe tenth or twelfth try, I saw something white buried under the sand.

Too much time spend with Sherlock and been too nosey I set the golf-club aside and started digging. Stupid me. You don't start digging in a sand trap. In every bad movie there is a dead body buried in a sand trap – I wasn't lucky enough to find one tho, not yet.

Let me say at this point, coming home and finding eyeballs in the microwave is gross – but a normal occurrence where I live (p.s. Sherlock put the head out of our fridge).

Finding one eyeball buried under a lot of sand, in a sand trap, on my holiday - that is crazy.

At this point I wasn't certain Sherlock hadn't had a hand in this after all.

Anyway, I decided not to mention this to Thomas and kept on playing, the eyeball stuffed in my pocket.

Not five holes further came a lake – guess what, I managed to hit the water.

Fishing in the little lake to get my ball back, my hand touched something soft and squeezy. It felt quite familiar and when I withdrew my hand out of the water, what was lying on my palm?

The second eyeball.

Funny how that is, but they always seem to come in pairs.

Thomas looked over my shoulder to see if I had managed to get my ball back.  
>Seeing the eye, he screamed blue murder and ran back to the club house.<p>

Not that I could blame him, who wouldn't run screaming after finding body parts where they don't belong?

Well, I apparently.

It's kinda hard to explain to the police why you haven't called them after finding an eye in the sand trap or why you thought it such a good idea to pocket the eye and keep on playing golf. (FYI don't tell them the eyeball is for a friend and you thought he would appreciate a souvenir, they don't believe you, try to arrest you for murder and put you in a nuthouse).

Seeing that I couldn't solve this puzzle with honesty, I told them I was with the London police and produced the fake id Sherlock gave me a while back.  
>They were still weary of me but at least they released me and I could try to get behind this mystery. I started with the eyeballs or rather would have tried to start with them – if it weren't for the explosion.<p>

The police released me around midnight, thus I went back to the golf club to get some sleep, before inspecting the eyeballs the next morning.

When I arrived at the station the next day, the desk sergeant told me there had been an explosion last night. They couldn't tell anything for certain just yet but they presumed the eyes to be the cause for the blast.

Driving back to the club house I talked to the manager, the staff and costumers. But no-one knew anything interesting.

That was the part where I went all Sherlock-y and started digging up a few sand traps.

It was the only reasonable thing to do at this point, right?

Who would have guessed, there it was, in the fifth trap – the body. I would like to say I didn't jump up and down with joy – I DID NOT! I merely bounced a bit– just a tiny little bit.

The police took the body and I talked to the manager again. Around twelve we managed to identify the body.

Melissa, she had worked in the club until she disappeared a few days earlier. Everyone assumed she had quite, no one held a grudge against her and everyone seemed to like her.

Sometime later the police confirmed the cause for the explosion as the eyeballs. (Which I'm really truly sorry about, even thought it was not exactly my fault – my flatmate was responsible for it. We'll talk later Sherlock!)

They found some odd chemicals on the eyeballs. Nothing extremely dangerous per se but mixed together they became highly explosive.

I won't go into details, let's just say: I remembered the chemicals as those used by a friend of mine, who doesn't bother to clean his hands after using them, nor not to use my phone or search my jacket pockets with the substances on his hands.

Needless to say the substances got from my pockets onto the eyes and when they were stored together as evidence they exploded. My first reaction was to wash my hands thoroughly and take my jacket off.

I'm damn lucky to be still alive.

I spend a few more hours investigating the murder, only to find myself out of my depth.

Calling Sherlock seemed at that point a reasonable good idea. He would probably deduct more from a phone conversation that I could in 24 hours. (And I wanted to rip his head of for nearly killing me.)

Turned out I was right again.

Sherlock listened to my story.  
>I told him everything I found out and what the police managed to get. He asked me in turn some very strange questions about the trees around here and the animals living in them... can't remember what else.<p>

Typical Sherlock questions, no-one knows what he is on about until he reveals the big secret.

Which he did shortly afterwards.

He finished his questions, took a moment to consider the facts and told me what happened.

The golf club manager had an affair with Melissa. He broke up with her, she got angry and threatened to tell his wife. They got into a fight, he pushed her, she fell down the stairs. She died immediately, he panicked and hid the body in a golf trap.

According to Sherlock his hole wasn't dug deep enough and one of the birds living around here stole the eyeballs from its sockets. Losing the interest in them, the bird let them fall, one fell in the water the other in a sand trap. It was a stormy night and the wind buried the body an the second eye.

I told the police what happen.

They searched the office and found evidence for the affair and some blood under the stairs.

The manager got arrested and I decided to head back home.

I believe it's save to say that, while it was a nice experience, I'll never ever do it again.

I'm just no good at hobbies.

John re-read his entry and clicked send. It wasn't all that had happened that day but he thought it best not to mention breaking into Melissa's flat and the managers' office. Or the shovel he stole to dig out the body. Some things are better not written down when the police is reading your every blog entry.

The next morning he had about thirty replies.

Form his sister, worrying he might explode every second now. He assured her, he'd cleaned his jacked and talked to Sherlock about it.

From Lesterade, demanding to get his police badge back and threatening him to sue him for impersonating a police officer if the badge isn't on his desk till Friday.

From Anderson, saying only freaks stored heads in the fridge and wondering why there are still eyeballs in the microwave. John pointed out to him that they are, in fact, not the same ones Donovan had discovered in an earlier fake drug bust.

From Sherlock, telling him he wouldn't take any responsibility for the exploded eyeballs.

The last reply was from Sally. It read as follows:

‚Forget the hobbies – go get yourself a date!'

tbc..


	3. Chapter 3

The next time Sherlock and John went to a crime scene, John sat next to Sally on a nearby police car.

"About that date...," John started but was interrupted by Sgt. Donovan.

"Don't tell me... you took my advice, went on a date and someone in the restaurant got killed."

He stared at her blankly, "No of course not! It was a perfectly normal date. Well, as normal as you can get with Sherlock."

"You went on a date with Sherlock?" she asked flabbergasted.

"NO! Of course not. I'm not... we're not..." trying to find the right words, and failing miserably, John began again, "I went with Sarah, a fellow doctor, on a date and Sherlock happened to invite himself along."

Still smirking, Sally kept been noisy, "Then what happened? Bombs? Dead bodies? Go on, tell."

"Fine... . We went to the circus. Sherlock fought a huge sword wielding mad man, me and Sarah tried to help and we all managed to escaped the Chinese-Mafia-Circus. Later, technically still on a date, we got kidnapped, they mistook me for Sherlock and we all got nearly killed. I was held at gun point, they threatened to shoot Sarah with an arrow and Sherlock saved the day, after repeatedly been shot at. Really nothing special, just the usual evening out with Sherlock Holmes. You can read the full story on my blog. It's 'The Blind Banker'."

"..."

FIN


End file.
